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Apparently Jackson had a fit of teenage rebellion in London. Like, normal teenage rebellion, instead of the supernaturally-charged, go-out-and-get-yourself-bitten-by-a-werewolf kind.
It was going to kill Stiles.
The two little rings hooked over Jackson’s bottom lip had practically slapped Stiles in the face the second the returning beta had set foot in BHHS for senior year. He would never have expected to see Jackson Whittemore, of all people, with piercings, but there he was with fucking snake bites, looking smug and cool and positively sinful.
And he wouldn’t stop touching them! That was the biggest problem. Whenever Jackson’s hands weren’t occupied, they went right to his mouth, fiddling with the gold rings, sliding them around or flipping them from side to side, constantly drawing attention to the plump pink swell of his lip.
Stiles wasn’t sure which was worse, his heretofore unknown piercings kink or his newfound attraction to fucking Jackson.
It didn’t help that Jackson knew. The smug werewolf bastard could smell the pheromones. He kept smirking at Stiles, raising an eyebrow that always made Stiles flush and drop whatever he was holding. It was humiliating. Not to mention immensely frustrating. Stiles hadn’t jerked off this much since the month he admitted he liked men and finally gave himself permission to fantasize about them.
He’d tried retracting that permission, at least where Jackson was concerned, but so far no dice. Those little gold rings still taunted him, just begging to get played with by something other than Jackson’s own fingers.
At least Scott hadn’t caught on yet. That was Stiles’ one saving grace in this whole mess. But if Jackson didn’t stop giving him that look in the middle of the goddamn locker room, that wasn’t going to last much longer.
“You know what, buddy?” Stiles cut across Scott’s frequent lament about what a hardass his AP Bio teacher was. “I’m not really feeling video games today. Got some homework I really gotta stop neglecting. Why don’t you go find Kira, see if she’s free tonight?”
As he’d hoped, Scott’s face lit up at the prospect. He reined it in, though, to ask, “You sure?”
Stiles waved him off. “If you go now, you can probably catch her before she leaves the girls’ locker room.”
Scott was off like a shot. Stiles couldn’t blame him; between his AP course load, his work at the clinic, some minor supernatural dust-ups, and his standing weekly game nights with Stiles, he and Kira hadn’t had nearly enough time together lately.
Shaking his head at the metaphorical dust trail Scott’s hasty exit had kicked up, Stiles turned to chuckle into his locker as he stowed the last of his gear. The laugh died when he closed the locker door to find Jackson leaned up right behind it. He did not jump, but it was a close thing.
“What do you want, Jackson?”
Jackson’s grin glinted in the low light and Stiles realized abruptly that they were the only ones left in the locker room.
“He’s gonna figure it out eventually, you know.”
Stiles snatched up his gym bag and hitched it over his shoulder. He didn’t leave, though, and not just because Jackson was blocking the path to the door. Against his better judgment, he asked, “Figure out what?”
“That you like me.”
Stiles scoffed, unable to stop himself, a reflex ingrained from years of well-practiced disdain. “Please.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “You’re into me,” he rephrased. “You wanna fuck me.”
This time, Stiles couldn’t laugh it off, not when his heart rate spiked and his eyes fell to the piercings without his permission. Jackson’s widening grin made them catch the light again. Stiles swallowed.
Jackson pushed off the lockers, hands in his jean pockets, and gave a shrug. “So?”
A suddenly dry mouth made licking his lips a little hard, and Stiles’ voice came out hoarse when he said, “So what?”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Stiles blinked at him, trying to make his brain parse the question when all the blood that was supposed to be in it was taking an abrupt and unauthorized detour south. “Uh…do?”
Jackson rolled his eyes again like dealing with Stiles was particularly tedious. He sauntered forward, into Stiles’ space, until Stiles’ back hit his locker and he couldn’t back up any further. His bag slid off his shoulder again to this against the floor and they were suddenly closer than they’d ever been, close enough for Stiles to see that Jackson actually had a smattering of very light freckles across his cheeks, by the time Jackson finally said, “Yeah, Stiles. Do.”
It was a challenge. It couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anything else, not with the way Jackson braced an elbow on either side of Stiles’ head to lean in even closer. And Stiles may have been trying to work on himself and how easily baited he was, lest he try to fight something bigger and stronger than him (again) and get himself killed just because he refused to back down, but he hadn’t made enough progress on that front to resist this.
It was a simple motion to flip their positions, to shove Jackson back and around until he was the one pinned, but Stiles was still a little surprised that it worked. Jackson was a werewolf, after all, and stronger than Stiles could ever hope to be in his entire life. But he made no move to stop Stiles from manhandling him. He let himself be pushed up against the bank of lockers, let Stiles crowd him, let Stiles shove a knee between his legs with a little hitch of breath that made Stiles shiver.
“You talk a big talk, Jackson,” he said, low and rough, “but you know what? I’m starting to get the feeling that you want me to fuck you too.”
Jackson didn’t even try to deny it. He just licked his lips, tongue skating over those fucking piercings to leave them glistening wet, like he knew exactly what that did to Stiles.
Stiles growled out, “Fucking tease.”
He’d never kissed anyone with lip piercings before but he could already confidently say that he loved it. The contrast of soft, warm skin and cool, hard metal. Jackson’s mouth was such a yielding thing, but those piercings were a shock of sensation in the midst of it. Stiles couldn’t help himself from catching one of the rings in his teeth, giving it a little tug.
Jackson whimpered.
It was a sound Stiles had never heard from him before, not even close. It startled him into pulling back, breathing hard. It took a second for the dazed look to clear from Jackson’s face. The second he caught up with himself enough to realize the noise he’d made, his cheeks flushed a dark pink. He didn’t look away, though, just raised his head higher in defiance and slid his hands down Stiles’ stomach to the button of his jeans.
His fingers faltered when Stiles took his mouth again, going straight for the piercings this time. Stiles dragged one into his mouth, sucking just a bit. It earned him another of those delicious fucking sounds, so he kissed his way over to the other ring and did it again.
Jackson was clutching at him now, fingers digging into his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping him upright. Fuck, it was hot.
The prospect of unbuttoning forgotten for the moment, Stiles just pushed forward, grinding against Jackson’s thigh. Jackson pressed back against him, one hand abandoning its white-knuckle grip to pull at his hip instead, trying to get him closer. But there was only so much they could do like this, and the roughness of two layers of denim was starting to chafe.
With a herculean effort, Stiles disengaged. His attention was immediately caught again by the wet glint of the piercings, the swollen redness of Jackson’s abused mouth. To keep himself from succumbing to their temptations again, Stiles pressed his thumb to Jackson’s bottom lip instead. He could feel Jackson’s shaky sigh, hot and damp against his skin.
He barely even recognized his own voice as he said, “You ever sucked a cock with these in?”
Jackson’s eyes went dark, pupils blown wide. “Maybe once or twice.”
This time, Stiles went for his jeans himself, popping the button with a practiced flick of his fingers. “Show me how it’s done, then.”
If Stiles had expected Jackson to resist or protest, he would’ve been dead wrong. Jackson went to his knees fast enough to make Stiles’ head spin, fingers already scrabbling for his zipper. Stiles had to brace himself on the lockers over Jackson’s head at the first touch to his dick, but it was the sight that really did him in. The head of his cock, flushed red and wet, fit perfectly against Jackson’s bottom lip, framed by glinting golden rings like the most obscene kind of bookends.
Jackson knew how he looked, too. He let Stiles rest there for a long moment, obviously preening under the heat of Stiles’ gaze. It wasn’t until Stiles took the back of his neck in a tight grip that he finally let the head slide home.
Stiles had had blowjobs before. Not a whole lot, admittedly, but enough to have a pretty solid understanding of how he reacted to them.
None had ever affected him like this. The piercings traced cool lines down the underside of his cock, sliding against the sensitive skin like silk, and it took everything Stiles had not to thrust as deep as he could into Jackson’s eager throat.
Fuck, this wasn’t going to last long. But hell if he was going to come first.
He tightened his grip on Jackson’s neck. Jackson moaned sharply around the dick in his mouth—an intriguing reaction that Stiles might come back to later—and looked up with wide, wet eyes. Stiles didn’t pull out and it was a struggle to keep from giving away how close he was as he said, “Touch yourself. I wanna see you come just like this.”
Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off of Jackson’s mouth to look, but the vibration of another helpless moan told him he’d been obeyed. He transferred his grip to Jackson’s hair, taking over the motion now that Jackson was distracted, eyes glazed and distant as he worked himself over on Stiles’ instruction. The slapping sound of his hand on his own dick was almost loud enough to drown out the wet sound of Stiles’ fucking his mouth, and both echoed off the metal and tile all around them like the soundtrack to a really good porno.
His legs were dangerously weak, shaky with the force of holding himself back from the edge, but Stiles took his other hand off the lockers. It was worth the risk to run his thumb down Jackson’s jaw, over his chin, to rub across his lips where they were spread wide. All he had to do was press against that little ring and Jackson was tensing up, whining around Stiles’ dick, eyes flashing electric blue as he came all over his own hand and the locker room floor.
Stiles pulled out with a whine of his own, tugging on Jackson’s hair to pull his head back. It only took a handful of rough strokes before he was coming too. The waves of it crashed over him like an avalanche and he hitched his hips forward until the head of his dick bumped up against Jackson’s abused mouth, painting it white. Creamy droplets clung to the gold piercings like they didn’t want to let them go and Stiles shuddered through an aftershock almost strong enough to count as a second orgasm.
It was a good thing the bench was where it was, because Stiles probably would’ve just collapsed on the floor without it. As it was, even sitting upright was a chore with how boneless and wrung out he felt.
Jackson didn’t look much better, slumped back against the lockers, coming down from his own high. Once he’d gotten his breath back, he reached up to thumb some of the come off his chin.
“Should’ve expected you’d be one to make a mess,” he said. But he licked the digit clean, so clearly he didn’t mind too much.
Stiles flopped down to sprawl along the bench and averted his eyes before his cock made any ill-advised attempt to get hard again. “Hey, you’re the one who came onto me,” he pointed out, hastening to tuck himself back in. “You don’t get to complain.”
“Didn’t say I was complaining.”
Reluctantly, Stiles levered himself back up onto an elbow to frown in Jackson’s direction.
“You came onto me,” he said again. He met Jackson’s imperiously raised eyebrow—the effect of it a bit dampened anyway by the come all over his face—with a growing smirk. “You were going on about me liking you and wanting to fuck you, but you! You’ve been trying to come onto me this whole time! All those looks and the playing with your fucking piercings all the time. You’ve been seducing me for weeks. You like me!”
It was a little hard to tell with the mess, but Stiles was pretty sure Jackson blushed. Further investigation was prevented when Jackson chose that moment to pull his shirt up to wipe his face clean. The glimpse of his abs was appreciated, but the stubborn, petulant moue he emerged with was even more so.
He said, “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Stiles’ smirk blossomed into a full, self-satisfied grin. “So you like me at least a little bit?”
“Says the guy I just let come on my face,” Jackson said with an enormous roll of his eyes. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Stiles snorted and laid back down. “Yeah, yeah. You totally like me.”
Jackson didn’t answer. He was quiet long enough for Stiles’ smile to fade. Stiles craned his neck to get another look, finding Jackson with his head down, very focused on wiping his hands clean on his soiled shirt. It looked like he might be scraping under his fingernails, as ridiculous as that was.
Heart rate picking up again, Stiles chewed on his lip for a second before announcing, “Okay, maybe I like you, too. You know, at least a little bit. When you’re not being an ass.”
Jackson’s tentative glance up turned into a very flat, unimpressed look, and Stiles had to laugh. By the time he’d stopped, Jackson was on his feet, clothes straightened out, looking ready to walk out without a backward glance.
“Wait!” Stiles said, scrambling to his feet to catch Jackson by the hand before he could leave. “Just wait a sec, okay, I’m sorry, that was just—”
“Look, do you like me or not?” Jackson cut in. “Because a quick fuck is one thing, and that’s fine. I’ve had plenty with plenty of people. But…”
“But,” Stiles echoed. His hand was sweaty, he knew, but Jackson hadn’t pulled away from him. “But that’s not all you want here. With me. Is it?”
Jackson just looked at him, steady and challenging. And Stiles could never resist a challenge. So he took a deep breath, tightened his grip on Jackson’s hand, and kissed him.
It wasn’t anything like their previous kisses, all heat and force. This one was simple, sweet, and Stiles manfully resisted any and all piercing-related urges because this wasn’t about that. It was about the way Jackson squeezed his hand back and some of the tension melted out of his shoulders. It was about the upward quirk at the corner of his mouth when Stiles pulled back to meet his eye again.
“Does that answer your question?” Stiles asked.
Jackson almost smiled then. There was a little twitch like he wanted to, at least, before he covered it up with one of those insouciant shrugs of his and said, “I guess it’s a start.”
Huffing, Stiles rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t be too annoyed when Jackson was still holding onto his hand with no indication of wanting to let go.
“You know Scott’s definitely gonna know now, right?”
“So what?” Jackson asked with a frown. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, no problem,” Stiles said, all nonchalance. “But, just so you know…he’s gonna want us to do double dates with him and Kira.”
The horrified look on Jackson’s face was something that Stiles wanted immortalized in an oil painting and hung on his wall so that he could savor it for the rest of his life.
And yet when Stiles said, “You still wanna do this?”, he didn’t cut and run like Stiles half-expected him to. Instead he heaved a disgusted sigh, turned his hand to lace his fingers through Stiles’ properly, and said with an air of martyrdom, “You better start appreciating what I do for you.”
“I’ll be happy to reimburse you with sexual favors,” Stiles said brightly.
Jackson’s laugh echoed off the lockers all around them, his ring-studded smile catching the light in the most distracting way possible.
Yeah, he was going to be the death of Stiles. But strangely enough, he didn’t mind.