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The dull thwap of rubber hitting net is soft in the muggy twilight air. The faint chirping of unseen insects trills in the distant surroundings, but neither occupant of the field is particularly bothered. The thwap sounds again, followed by a quiet curse and the muted thud of the ball falling to the grass.
“You’re twisting too fast,” Jackson calls from halfway across the field. Stiles doesn’t respond, verbally at least, though he sticks out his tongue as he scoops up their ball in his crosse. Jackson rolls his eyes so pointedly even Stiles’ human eyes can see it, despite the fast approaching darkness. They could turn on the floodlights if they wanted, but as Stiles finally snags the ball and passes it back, he thinks they ought not to bother.
Jackson catches the ball perfectly and cradles it for a moment or two before quickstepping a few paces to the side and launching it back. Stiles grunts, having to turn and chase the ball a bit before snagging it in his crosse and pointedly waiting before rotating the stick.
To his surprise, the catch is perfect.
“See?” Jackson points out, smug. It’s Stiles’ turn to exaggeratedly roll his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, the lacrosse captain was right about playing lacrosse, big whoop.” Stiles has to complain, of course, it’s part of who he is, but nevertheless he’s grateful for the actually useful tutelage in the sport, and he cradles the ball successfully as he jogs back into place, passing the ball back to Jackson. His aim has steadily been improving all summer, and he’s pleased when Jackson doesn’t have to do more than hold his crosse forward to snag the ball from the air.
“Getting better,” Jackson compliments, tossing the ball normally. Stiles reaches out his stick and lets the ball contact the net – makes sure not to twist his grip too quickly – and lands the catch. He lets the crosse swing down, making sure the net is toward the ground opposite the swing, and cradles the ball for a few steps to his right. Jackson lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, when Stiles tries to whip the ball forwards from a straight up position only to have it spike the dirt in front of him and send a tiny chunk of sod flying.
Stiles frowns angrily at his stick, as if it were the real offended, and Jackson lets his head fall back and laughs.
“The fuck was that, Stilinski?” he jeers, stick falling lax beside him. Stiles flushes bright red and pouts. Jackson can scent some of his frustration and all of his embarrassment on the air.
“Fuck off, Whittemore,” Stiles scoffs, kicking at the small rubber ball and missing spectacularly. Before he can get even more upset, Jackson jogs a few steps closer then walks to the middle of the field. Stiles nudges the ball with his crosse so it rolls after him, and walks towards the middle as well, meeting Jackson halfway.
Stiles isn’t exactly sure how this routine got started. As he trudges to center field, he drops his stick next to where Jackson has already discarded his own and flops down beside him. They still face towards opposite sides of the field, but as they lay there, the peacefulness of the oncoming night still lulls them into a weirdly zen-like state. Stiles stares up at the stars slowly peeking out through the darkening sky and lets his mind wander.
*****
The last week of school before summer break used to be Stiles’ favorite time of the year. There aren’t enough days left for teachers to want to give detentions for unruly behavior, half the seniors have chosen to just fuck off entirely, leaving huge swathes of the student parking lot empty, and he got to rub his top-mark grades in the face of everyone who tried to say he was too disruptive to be paying attention in class.
The end of sophomore year, however, has not left him with nearly as much positivity.
The entire school stinks of melancholy, even to his human nose, to the point where even the promise of homework-free nights and sleeping in are not enough to bring up anyone’s enthusiasm. He spends the entire day stewing in everyone else’s miserable miasma, desperately fighting its attempts to cling to his clothing and skin when he breaks free from the school and practically races to his Jeep.
There’s a breath of peace in that solitary moment, bag tossed in the rear, keys sitting in the ignition, unturned, and he lets his head fall back against the rest.
Stiles isn’t sure what makes him sit back up and pay attention, but he does, eyes darting to the left. He sees Jackson trudging up to the parking lot through the grass, expression stormy. Stiles frowns, almost worried that he can see the twitch in Jackson’s jaw from here, and definitely worried when his eyes flash blue. It’s so quick he’s sure anyone not watching Jackson wouldn’t see it, but it’s enough of a warning that Stiles is yanking his keys from their slot, throwing open his door, and chasing after him.
By the time Stiles catches up, Jackson is nearly to his car. He doesn’t look up, but as Stiles slows his pace to greet him, he growls.
Loudly.
“Geeze, Jackson, are you trying to compromise the ‘Upernatural-say ‘Ecret-say to everyone in Beacon Hills?” he scolds, albeit playfully, eyes surreptitiously darting around to catalog any potential eavesdroppers. Jackson squints, unimpressed.
“What did you just say to me?” he asks, sneering. Stiles rolls his eyes and leans up against Jackson’s Porsche, blocking him from climbing in to avoid the conversation.
“It’s pig latin, keep up,” Stiles snarks. At Jackson’s unaffected expression, Stiles sighs and leans closer.
“Dude, you’re flashing your eyes and growling in public,” he whispers. “Chill out.” Jackson’s already peeved expression darkens, the metaphorical thunder clouds of his expression rolling in. Stiles swallows, heart skipping a beat, and tries not to think about being struck by lightning. Jackson’s teeth grind together roughly, rolling behind his pursed lips, before his entire face drops sharply into despondency, like the sky erupting into heavy rain suddenly and all-consuming. Stiles forces down the urge to look up.
After a tense moment, Jackson mumbles something entirely incoherent under his breath. Stiles frowns and scoots closer, entirely invading Jackson’s personal space. Jackson only leans backward, not truly pulling away.
“What?” Stiles asks. “I couldn’t hear you.” Jackson flushes a dark pink along his cheekbones, casting the faint smattering of freckles across his nose into contrast.
“I’ve been having… control issues,” he finally bites out, refusing to make eye contact. Stiles waits for a beat and finally leans back, letting Jackson inflate his personal bubble.
“Is that all?” Stiles finally asks. He arches his neck and looks around the lot, seeing that they’re really the last ones still parked in the student lot, and nods to himself.
“What do you mean ‘ is that all ’?” Jackson spits back, offended. Stiles winces at his tone but does his best to shrug it away.
“Well, I mean, I was worried something bad was happening,” he remarks, waving offhandedly at the school. “Weird shit always happens at the school.” Jackson frowns at him, still pinked, and Stiles fights down the urge to poke at him further. With Jackson embarrassed like this, Stiles thinks his frown looks like more of a pout. “If it’s just control, that’s fixable.” Jackson doesn’t stop frowning, but his face finally cools. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Stiles more seriously.
“It’s not… unusual that I don’t have total control yet?” he asks slowly, as if doubting Stiles’ words. Stiles grins sympathetically before clapping a hand to Jackson’s shoulder, eliciting a pointed sneer at the touch.
“Dude, you’ve only officially been a ‘wolf for like, four days,” he points out, quickly snatching back his hand. “Technically you’re doing better than the others.” Jackson doesn’t look wholly reassured, but he does look significantly less hostile, so Stiles decides to take that as a positive sign. After a long moment he nods decisively, entirely to himself, then pierces Stiles with a cool blue glare.
“You’ll help me,” he states. Stiles’ brows fly up at the audacity, but really he shouldn’t be so surprised considering how adamantly Jackson has pursued the bite to begin with.
“Sure,” Stiles agrees, regardless. “I’m just that magnanimous.” Jackson rolls his eyes, but Stiles can genuinely see some of the tension melting off his shoulders. He nods to himself and chances another friendly touch to Jackson’s shoulder. He glares, but somehow it’s less frightening. Stiles grins.
“To the lacrosse field!”
*****
“You hit your head or something when I wasn’t looking?” Jackson snarks, startling Stiles from his thoughts. He blinks away the memory and tilts his head, meeting eyes with Jackson’s pinched expression. Stiles knows he looks worried, and wonders when exactly he’d gotten so good at reading him.
“D’you say somethin?” he asks, stretching his arms straight above his head before folding them underneath it. Jackson rolls his eyes, but the atmosphere remains friendly, if a little unexpectedly warm, and not just from the summer air.
“I asked how bad today sucked,” he snarks, and Stiles smiles warmly to himself.
“Aww, did Baby Blue miss me?” he teases. Jackson scoffs as he always does at the nickname. Stiles knows his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment and pleasure, though, and fights the grin that threatens to split his lips. His jaw aches a little from the smile. Now that he knows Jackson so well, so intimately even, it’s too easy to tease him, but so much harder to do so with anything but affection.
It feels too good to make him blush.
Stiles doesn’t feel ready to analyze that feeling just yet, however, so when Jackson remains stubbornly silent he decides to offer an olive branch.
“It was fine, really,” he offers with a minimal shrug. It’s more for himself than Jackson, since regardless of his ability to see in the dark, they’re still not really facing each other. “It’s kind of hard to feel included when you’re fifth wheeling with your best friend and ex-eight year crush and their respective partners, but like. Somebody had to try to keep team Allydia’s strike count down, I guess?” He frowns at the memory before shaking it off.
“You should come next time,” he suggests, hopeful.
“Pass,” Jackson loudly dismisses. Before Stiles can splutter an argument, Jackson continues. “Bowling is so boring. Don’t you guys ever do something else?” Stiles snorts but decides not to point out the fact that Jackson had tagged along on just as many bowling double dates in the past, when he was still dating Lydia.
“Technically they went to the movies after,” he defends, and he can feel the grass shift from how bodily Jackson rolls his eyes.
“That’s just an excuse to make out in public.” Stiles laughs.
“Yeah, which is why I ditched and came here,” he reminds him. They’re both quiet for a long moment, drinking in the night air slowly chilling the sweat on their skin.
“Are you saying getting your ass beat at lacrosse is more fun than making out in the dark?” Jackson asks.
“Huh?” Stiles asks, inarticulately. Jackson is quiet for a long moment.
“Because you ditched,” he reminds him. “To work on lacrosse.” Stiles’ breath freezes in his chest. ‘With me.’ isn’t what he says out loud, but Stiles understands innately what he means. A warm bloom of affection bursts in his chest, and he can feel himself smiling like a fool.
“Oh,” he breathes from between the tight pockets of pressure pushing out from inside him. “Yeah. More fun.”
They’re quiet again for an even longer moment, sky finally fully dark. The lights from the more industrial parts of the city glow faintly in the distance, but the deep, inky darkness of the forest surrounding the rest of the field makes the space they share feel smaller, much more intimate.
“Would you ever want to?” Jackson asks. Stiles has much more difficulty following his train of thought this time, blinking slowly for a breath.
“Want to what?” he finally asks, brows pinched. He tucks down one arm and rolls, so he can see the faint outline of Jackson’s profile, bathed in only the light from waning moon and twinkling stars above. He can feel his breath catch in his chest for a beat, pushing himself not to lose their thread of conversation again.
“Makeout,” Jackson snarks, rolling his eyes. Stiles pouts.
“Well obviously ,” he snarks back. “I’m a teenage boy with a healthy libido. I would love to be making out almost all of the time.” He can only just see Jackson scowl, but he very much sees him rolling in the grass to face away. Stiles frowns, almost hurt for a moment, and lifts up onto his elbows. Jackson’s ears look a shade darker than the rest of his visible skin, which is confusing, but only for a moment.
“With me , asshole,” he finally bites out, and all at once every conversation they’ve shared since starting to practice together washes over him.
“Oh,” he breathes, voice barely carried with it, but it’s enough for Jackson’s shoulder to stiffen. Before he can roll to his feet and run away, Stiles throws an arm out, finger tangling tightly in the shoulder of his jersey.
“ Jackson ,” he wheezes, breathless, and he finally turns. His eyes are wide and wild, looking halfway between ready to bolt and ravenous, and Stiles notes with a distant sort of awareness that even in the near-pitch dark of the field, without an ounce of supernatural presence, his blue, blue eyes almost seem to glow. “Beautiful…”
Jackson scowls, lips twisting into a pout, but Stiles can’t help but to grin regardless.
“Yes,” he says, much more confidently. “I absolutely want to make out with you.” Jackson is quiet for a long moment before his lashes flutter and he pushes himself to refocus.
“Oh,” he whispers, barely loud enough for Stiles to hear. “Okay.” He tilts his head to the side, avoiding eye contact, and Stiles can feel his own pulse racing at the sight. He reaches one hand forward, ghosting his fingertips over Jackson’s bared throat before resting his palm along his jaw. They’re close, but not close enough, and Jackson refuses to look at him.
“Okay?” Stiles asks. He has to be sure. He has to know that Jackson means it, wholeheartedly, not just because he’s lonely and Stiles is there, willing. He feels Jackson swallow where the heel of his palm rests at his neck before he nods, gaze still lowered. Stiles swallows in return, pets his thumb along the ridge of Jackson’s cheekbone. He scoots closer in the grass, polyester shorts sliding easily across the trodden-down leaves, until they’re sitting beside each other, hip to hip. He’s watching Jackson’s face, noticing and memorizing every microcosm of change that’s legible in the lowlight.
He moves his thumb to trace along the edge of Jackson’s lower lip, and watches his lashes flutter, only once. He watches as his lips part ever so slightly, and feels as a pocket of tension eases from his jaw.
“ Beautiful ,” he whispers again before finally, finally closing that tiny gap still left between them. He slides his thumb back so it’s not in the way and he can cradle Jackson’s face. When their lips touch it feels like an electric current has become live beneath his skin, sharp, stinging, and meld-meltingly delicious. He moans slightly as their mouths press closer, teeth sharp behind the movement of their lips, and he can feel a tingle as Jackson voices his own pleasure.
It’s a simple kiss, barely more than chaste, but when Stiles pulls back, his breath is once again wrought from his lungs at the sight.
They’ve spent all summer working on his control, but the vision of Jackson struggling to hold back the thin rings of electric blue highlighting his pupils blown wide is exhilarating. Stiles hums almost possessively, deep in his throat, and Jackson legitimately whimpers in response. Stiles smirks without cruelty, and takes enough pity to avoid comment. He leans forward again, Jackson once again letting him tilt his head back, allowing him to take control of the kiss. Stiles moves his other hand around to balance on the opposite side of Jackson’s hip so that he’s leaning fully into his space, practically hovering overtop him.
Jackson has to tilt his chin up to keep their mouths together, lips moving against each other, pressing and pulling with tender force. After a long moment, Jackson finally lets himself reach out. He grasps tightly at Stiles’ jersey, at his side, unintentionally tugging up the hem as he knots his fingers in the loose fabric.
Stiles hums into the kiss, satisfied and starving in equal measure, and finally lets his tongue dart out to taste the seam of Jackson’s lips. He gasps in response, momentarily startled, and Stiles takes that as an invitation to press even further inside. He licks over his lips, across his teeth, and takes a moment to plunge in without direction, effectively fucking Jackson’s mouth as if it were another appendage. Heat flares at the thought and Jackson’s cheeks grow noticeably warm. Stiles has to pull himself away before he loses any more of his breath.
Jackson looks up at him, wide-eyed and loose, whining at the loss. Stiles can’t help the hunger that surges in his gut at the sight.
“Jax…” he trails off, looking between his eyes, drunk on the heady expression. Jackson clicks his jaw shut and hums, but doesn’t loosen his grip on Stiles’ jersey. Before long, he’s had enough, and pushes them both into motion. He lifts up on his knees, momentarily towering over Jackson until he swings his leg over to straddle him completely. Jackson loses his grip on Stiles’ jersey only long enough for him to settle back down, his other hand supporting him upright.
“That’s enough of that,” Stiles comments drily, reaching out and tugging the wrist Jackson is supporting himself on. He thumps flat to the ground with a quiet whoosh of air, Stiles still kneeling tall above him. Jackson is breathless for a moment until Stiles is curling over him, pressing their lips together again and pushing Jackson’s head into the grass and dirt below. His hands tremble in the air before he forces them forward, clutching desperately at the fabric of Stiles’ jersey until a quiet rip tears through the heated space between them. Stiles jerks back in surprise, looking down at the line rending his two from his four, and hums to himself.
Jackson looks momentarily terrified, but Stiles tugs one of his hands into his own and lifts it to his mouth. He presses a chast kiss to Jackson’s knuckles with lids fluttered shut.
“You might as well finish the job,” he snarks with a shrug. Jackson still looks a little bit mortified, but he nods his assent and pulls his hand away so he can hold both sides of the fabric. He frowns in concentration for a moment, eye flashing bright blue, and tears the shirt in two, fabric fluttering through the air to rest on either of Stiles’ sides.
Jackson lets his glowing gaze trail over Stiles’ newly bared torso. His abs are firm and lithe, shoulders broad, and biceps round and tight. He hums in appreciation, letting his palms trail up from Stiles’ navel across to his flanks.
Stiles shivers in response, humming to himself in pleasure. It soaks in the attention, Jackson’s supernaturally warm palms a stark contrast to the chill night air. He lets Jackson look, reveling in the attention. He’s spent a lot of time struggling with his self image, especially compared to people who look like Jackson, so to be the bearer of such pointed lust stokes not only his ego, but the fire coiling low in his gut. His hips make an aborted, jerky thrust when he lets the thought overcome him, and Jackson whines quietly from beneath him.
After a moment Stiles reaches down and grabs Jackson’s hand from where it’s trailing over his skin. He holds his palm to his face and presses a chaste kiss there, eyes falling closed. He lets himself breathe in against Jackson’s calloused palm, kissing where his first knuckle meets his palm, and then smirking to himself. Without a hint of intention, he swipes the flat of his tongue along the length of Jackson’s finger, suckling at the tip. He tastes of salt, grass, and churned earth from their time on the field. Stiles lets his mind continue to wander and he traces the gap between Jackson’s index and middle fingers with the point of his tongue and then follows it with the flat of it.
Jackson whimpers loudly beneath him, body shaking as he holds himself back from rutting up against where Stiles is perched. When he decides that Jackson’s fingers are sufficiently moist, he presses another chaster kiss to his palm and speaks.
“Do you want this?” he asks, staring down at Jackson’s writhing, whimpering mess. His face is hot and flushed, barely visible but for the glow of his eyes catching on the sheen of sweat and tears highlighting his face. Stiles feels a yearning hunger stronger than ever before at the sight, but he holds himself back.
Barely.
“Jackson,” he demands, teasing, rolling his hips ever so slightly and feeling a hard length of heat against his thigh through his flimsy shorts.
“You need to tell me you want it if you want me to keep going,” he breathes. Jackson looks like he’s trying to melt into the ground beneath him, barely coherent, and it makes Stiles feel powerful. It’s a headrush of desire thick behind his eyes and tight beneath his skin. Jackson tries to roll his hips but Stiles lifts up on his knees, denying him the friction. His own cock is painfully hard and he can feel an already sizable wet patch in his underwear, but he doesn’t bother acknowledging it. Jackson can probably smell it on him.
“Tick tock, Jackson,” he warns again. Jackson gasps, pushing his hips into the dirt hard enough Stiles is momentarily positive he’ll leave a butt print in the turf. Jackson’s head thrashes back and forth before a distinctly canine whine keens from his throat.
“W-want it,” he finally stammers, breathing heavily in the quiet air. Stiles smiles.
“What do you want, Jackson?” he asks, letting himself rest across Jackson’s lap again and grinding down. Jackson moans loudly, interrupting the relative peace of the summer night, but it only makes Stiles feel even better, even more in control.
“Want,” he pants, tongue lolling out between teeth. Stiles has barely touched him but he’s already such a mess.
“Want?” he prompts, biting back a grin.
“Want you ,” he chokes out, shaking in the grass. “Want you, want you. So bad.” He pants, writhing, and Stiles feels a small stab of pity. Miniscule, really.
“Please, please,” Jackson starts to beg, and that’s it for Stiles, really. His own moan gets caught in his throat as he surges forward, folding himself in half to press another filthy kiss to Jackson’s open mouth. He practically sobs into it, letting Stiles fuck his tongue between his lips, desperately sucking to try and keep it inside. His hands shake as the one Stiles captured earlier clings tightly to his fingers, the other feeling across it back, trailing blunt fingertips across his skin.
It feels good to be petted like that, and Stiles hums into the kiss and rolls his hips, finally giving Jackson some of the friction he desperately craves. It feels good, but it’s not quite enough.
After a moment, Stiles finally pulls away, both disgusted and aroused further by the wet squelch as their lips separate. He breathes Jackson’s air for a moment before turning slightly to the side and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. Jackson whines from the moment they separate onwards, but Stiles doesn’t let himself be swayed. He sits up consideringly for a beat before un-straddling Jackson’s lap and pulling on his thighs until he’s kneeling in the grass with Jackson’s legs wrapped around his waist.
“Okay, shoosh, c’mere,” he soothes, leaning down and pressing his mouth to Jackson’s again. It isn’t until Jackson’s hands are wrapped around his torso and clawing gently at his back that he ceases his plaintive calling, moving instead to panting between clashes of tongues and teeth. He moans into Stiles’ mouth as he tilts his head back for more effective ravaging, rolling his hips effectively against Stiles’. Stiles grunts at the onslaught of attention, hips jerking into Jackson’ and folding him into the dirt. He pulls away to bite at Jackson’s lips, shifting his balance so he can use one hand to grab Jackson’s thigh and hitch it higher on his waist, up off the ground.
Jackson keens loudly as his shoulders are shoved into the grass by gravity, flexing his thighs to keep them secure around Stiles’ waist. Stiles pets his up thigh, groping his way up Jackson’s body and petting back down. Jackson pants open mouthed as Stiles alternates between biting his lips lips and pressing hot kisses and bites to his neck. He tries to rut against Stiles but can’t quite get the friction he wants at this angle. He whimpers again but Stiles just shushes him, pressing one more sloppy kiss to his lips before straightening his spine.
Stiles looks down at Jackson from his new vantage point, and while he isn’t swollen or bruised from any of the attention, he still looks positively ravished. Sweat beads across his brow, catching traces of whatever light manages to hit it so his body glistens like a mirror of the sky, dotted with stars. His hair is dark and wet, slicked away from his face, and Stiles swears he has tear tracks down the side of his face. His lips are so moist they almost seem to glow from within, sparkling in the starlight.
He’s beautiful.
He’s absolutely breath-taking and Stiles wants him in any and every conceivable way. He groans, hips grinding forward, and finally takes real control of their positions. He wraps his deft fingers around the beginning of Jackson’s hips where they meet his waist. The barest hint of bone beneath finely corded muscle is stuff beneath his thumbs, and he angles him in place just so, so that when he grinds himself forward again, the friction is a delicious burn for them both.
Jackson moans so loudly he seems to startle himself. Before he can feel too embarrassed, however, Stiles grins and does it again. And again, And again and again and again until they’re rutting together like animals in heat. Jackson is keening, crying out for a release he can’t manage to string enough words together to beg for, but all Stiles can do is flick his head to the side to wick away the sweat that threatens to drip into his eyes. He barely blink, gaze riveted on Jackson’s heated expression, watching as he bites his lips and fights to stay quiet, ultimately failing. He watches as his brows pinch with the strain, and his lashes flutter, long and beautiful against his cheeks.
“So good for me,” Stiles finds himself whispering, soothing the part of him utterly unraptured with the creature beneath him and desperate to let it be known.
“So gorgeous like this, so beautiful,” he says with a moan. Jackson’s eyes flutter open, looking up into Stiles’ with a desperate, pleading look. Stiles just smiles at him softly, panting, and ratchets up the pace of their frotting.
“Look at you, so eager for me,” he pants fingers tightening intermittently as his orgasm encroaches. “So desperate for me to do this to you, huh? So hungry for it. You wanna be good for me right?” Jackson whimpers loudly, mouth unable to close between loud, heaving breaths.
“And you are, Jackson,” Stiles purrs, hunching down close, core screaming from the strain. “You’re so good, so pretty for me.”
Jackson stiffens entirely with a sharp gasp, eyes losing focus, and for a moment Stiles worries he’s gone too far or crossed a line he hadn’t known to be wary of, but his concerns are washed away as quickly and the warm damp patch in Jackson’s shorts spreads. Feeling that dampness accompanied by the slick sounds of them rutting together fills Stiles with a sort of vacant euphoria not entirely unlike orgasm on its own, but it’s not until Jackson opens his eyes and whimpers his name that Stiles hits his peak.
It practically burns through him, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to fight off the vertigo that rockets through him at the sensation. He groans, long and low, as his hips grind forwards until his balls are empty and his shorts are uncomfortably full. He stays there, dick still pressed to Jackson’s through wet, sticky fabric, until he isn’t so sensitive that moving hurts. He gently lowers Jackson’s hips until his fingers touch the ground and bonelessly slumps forward on top of him.
They both suck in deep lungfuls of air in silence, heartbeats slowly calming and easing into a single rhythm. Eventually Jackson grunts and pushes at Stiles until he rolls over onto the grass. The pull of drying cum trapped against his pubs and tugging on his sensitive skin makes Stiles whine in protest until Jackson thwaps his hand gently in the vicinity of Stiles chest.
“Shut up,” he whines, voice slightly hoarse. Stiles pouts at him, even though he isn’t looking.
“Make me,” he goads, but exhaustion is making the teasing lilt slow and not even close to as threatening as he means it to. Jackson just snorts.
“Gross,” he complains, dragging one leg up so it’s bent at the knee. He wiggles it slightly before grimacing sharply. “ Gross .”
“In my defense,” Stiles starts, waving a hand lazily in the air as if to emphasize his point. “Me too.”
“Whatever, Stiles.” Jackson rolls his eyes. Stiles grins. After another long beat of silence, Stiles groans and forces himself to sit up.
“So,” he starts, rolling his shoulder and trying to ease out the stiffness that is quickly setting in. “My dad is working until six A.M.” Jackson grunts and pushes himself into a sitting position as well.
“And?” he asks, scowling. Stiles can see the confused pout lurking behind the furrowed brows, however, and simply smiles at him. He leans forward into Jackson’s space and waggles his eyebrows.
“ And ,” he starts, leaning back when Jackson shoves him, but snagging his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He smirks when Jackson turns away, blushing. “That means I have the house to myself. No adults.” Jackson rolls his eyes but lets himself lean further into Stiles’ space.
“So we can shower in peace?” he asks, sarcastically. Stiles’ grins widens, and almost feral twinge to it.
“And maybe fuck for real.” Jackson blinks owlishly at him for a moment before a vivid flush colors his cheeks, making Stiles snicker. “You know, if you’re still interested.” Jackson shrugs, feigning nonchalance, so Stiles stands and stretches, looking around for his gear, and wincing at the pull of his shorts while walking around.
“Oh, well, if you aren’t interested–” He’s interrupted by Jackson launching to his feet and pressing right up against him.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Jackson snarks, avoiding eye contact. Stiles reaches out and pets a hand gently over the top of Jackson’s head.
“Hmm, panties,” he says quietly to himself, though with his werewolf hearing clearly Jackson hears him. Jackson walks just a little bit quicker, but Stiles can still reach down and pinch the meet of his ass sharply. Jackson yelps in response, whipping around to glare at him, but Stiles only grins, unphased.
“I’m just saying,” he lets himself trail off, thought unverbalized. Jackson rolls his eyes but sticks a hand back for Stiles to grab, waiting until he can tug him along so they walk side by side.
“I’m not wearing anything cheap,” he finally says as they cross into the parking lot. There are small street lamps dotted around the lot that are on, casting their rumpled appearances into stark lighting. Stiles’ pale torso practically glows in the overhead lighting, but Jackson seems almost fixated on his shorts. Stiles can already feel himself attempting to respond to the heated look, and he quickly looks back and forth between Jackson’s sexy but teeny tiny Porsche and his own clunky but wide-framed Jeep.
“One more for the road?” he asks, rugging on Jackson’s hand. Jackson blinks rapidly a few times, gaze shifting sharply upwards, and Stiles has the keen suspicion that he didn’t hear a thing he’d said. He grins almost menacingly in response, tugging Jackson’s hand and stepping towards his Jeep. At Jackson’s confused frown, he rolls his eyes. “There’s more space if you wanna suck me off.” Finally, he gets to see the rosy pink flush flooding over Jackson’s cheek in brighter lighting, and it’s just as delectable as he’d expected. Unexpectedly, however, Jackson nods his head frantically up and down.
“God, I wanna taste you so bad,” he says, quietly. “I think my wolf is gonna go nuts from the smell of your cum.” Stiles is almost struck dumb at the boldness, and Jackson smirks at him over his shoulder, stepping quickly towards the Jeep and tugging him along.
Touché.