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If it weren’t for the fact that Jackson wanted to hump the shit out of everything with a pulse, he’d really be enjoying Valentine’s Day.
See, for guys like him, V-Day had always been a cake walk. Like, literally. From grammar school and on, Jackson couldn’t walk down the halls on that February day without being mauled with chocolate and cupcakes, Power Rangers valentines – and, as he got older, some truly tempting invitations of tits and ass wrapped in frilly, ruffled things with too many straps.
Yeah, there would always be those lonely losers who hated on the holiday – but they were just that. The freaks, the fuglies, the nerds, the side-liners of life. Jackson? He was at the centre of the field, always had been. Valentine’s Day was just the time of year that highlighted this fact.
This year, as it was, not so much.
Derek had told him to stay in his room and wait it out. It being this bone-deep burning desire to fuck someone through the mattress, the floor, and into the goddamn ground. Apparently this shit was normal. Jackson supposed, in the big scheme of things, this was the least strange occurrence for him in the past year.
On the other hand, Jackson was in heat. Not cool.
The only luck Jackson encountered with this was his parents being away on a Valentine vacation. He was alone in the house, and could therefore jack-off as many times as his over-sensitised dick would allow. He could also, quite literally, writhe up the walls with howling frustration.
And it wasn’t like he could call up any one of the beautiful, pink pussies he knew would come for him if he texted it. Jackson couldn’t risk any booty-call finding out about his wolfy side.
The doorbell echoed its ominous tone through the vacant, marble mansion, and Jackson went statue still in his bedroom, his eyes wide. He felt his thighs quiver as he scented the air in an action he would cringe at, had he been wholly aware he was doing it. But Jackson’s senses were still too new, too untrained to cut through brick and stone – and so, he was left with a pretty big dilemma.
Risk answering the door and humping the hell out of whoever was behind it. Or, well, just continue this shitty solitude.
Jackson was opening the door before he realised he’d shot downstairs. Fuck.
“Took you long enough,” Stiles said as he wobbled beneath the weight of the pink and white packages he held. “You couldn’t even put a shirt on to answer the door? What if I’d been one of those UPS guys with a handlebar moustache and khaki shorts? I feel like half of those delivery dudes are registered sex offenders. I mean, I know you’re all dogified now, but that doesn’t exclude the possibility of some seriously awkward encounters. With you being – you know. Not clothed.”
“Are you done?” Jackson said between gritted teeth.
“Am I ever?”
Stiles smelled like cloying milk chocolate and the warm, clean musk that was distinctly his own. Any other day, it would be a passing scent in the crowd that Jackson could pick out. Today, he was salivating at the thought of shoving Stiles to the ground, yanking his shirt up, and licking a hot, wet line from hip to fragrant, lightly fuzzed armpit.
Oh fuck. Jackson bit back a growl. “What do you want, Stilinski?”
Stiles cocked his head, his eyes clear and curious over the mound of boxed chocolates and ugly stuffed animals. “Someone’s touchy today. I gotta admit I poorly masked a gasp of shock when I heard you’d called in sick on what must be your favourite day of the year, next to your birthday. Or, come to think of it, next to happy hour at the end of every day. Not that I’m calling you an alcoholic, but you’re an alcoholic.”
A dull pain shot up Jackson’s arm, and seeping in was the vague awareness that he was gripping the doorframe with finger-cracking force. He hadn’t heard a useless word Stiles had said. Jackson had been distracted by the errant freckling that highlighted Stiles’ animated features – the erratic bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he spoke – the soft sheen of his damp bottom lip. Jackson wanted to tear at those lips.
The tip of Stiles’ tongue dipped at the corner of his mouth, just a flash of pink to send Jackson’s heart hammering against his tight chest. He thought his skin might tear from the strain of his tensing muscles. The air was sticky with Stiles, the sound of his breathing as booming in Jackson’s ears as a thunderstorm rolling in.
Stiles flicked a look at Jackson, his pupils swelling. “Um. So. Because everyone else is scared of you, I was dumped with the duty of carting over all your fan service shit.” He thrust his arms out, one package of chocolates toppling to their feet. “Take them before they melt.”
Jackson entertained the idea of eating Stiles rather than the chocolate – but, thing was, he wasn’t gay. Definitely not gay. Just... very – seriously – horny.
Heaving a sigh, Jackson stole himself from his wolf-induced fantasies and moved to snatch away the Valentine goods.
Stiles offered one of his crooked, socially awkward smiles as he watched Jackson dump the gifts in the foyer. “I may or may not have polished off a box of chocolate crèmes on the drive over. Leaning heavily towards the may. But I felt like you wouldn’t really care, considering the quantity, and also the fact that you’re like one percent body fat, so you probably wouldn’t eat them anyway.”
“You been checking me out, Stilinski?” The words pounced forth without permission. Jackson swallowed hard and took a step forward, the doorway still between them. As long as Stiles remained on the front step and Jackson inside, he felt like there was some line that hadn’t been crossed. A boundary that he couldn’t cross, because – well, because this was Stiles.
“I w-what?” Stiles went all wide-eyed, like a doe caught in the woods. And Jackson wanted to be the one to take him down. “Just – just what are you sick with, man?”
By reply, Jackson bared his teeth – felt his canines taper to glinting tips – in a low snarl that shook him from top to toe. He grasped either side of the doorway and tilted forward, arced out until his nose was nearly tucked against the crook of Stiles’ neck. A deep inhale filled Jackson’s lungs with Stiles, Stiles, sweat, nerves, fightorflight, flight, flight.
Stiles sucked in a sharp breath, but remained almost impressively still. “Okaaay,” he said carefully. “Good doggy. Um, s-so this is – is like a Pon Farr thing, but for werewolves, right? Unless you’re legit going to eat me – which, for the record, would not be tasty, as I’m just all stringy fat – but yeah, um. I’m going to go now.” A choked gulp. “You – you can stop sniffing me. I did shower today. I don’t know if the same can be said about you, though. Unless dishevelled insomniac is like, your new look or whaaaah!”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Jackson said, his voice hoarse and breathless as he tugged Stiles into the house and shoved him up against the wall.
“Oh no no no.” Stiles’ voice grew higher-pitched and obnoxious by the second, and all Jackson wanted to do was silence that mouth with his own. But Stiles was squirming and talking, for fuck’s sake. “There are laws against this, Jackson! Very serious ones. And also, probably werewolf ones. I don’t know about any werewolf code handbook thingies out there, but if you just give me some time to find one I’m sure it’ll say that this sort of thing is a pretty big no-no.”
“Like I care,” Jackson said against Stiles’ throat, grazing the pulse of it with the sharp ridge of his teeth.
“I – I – um – haaaa.” Stiles’ breath hitched as Jackson’s wrangled with the sleeves of Stiles’ hoodie, gripping the hems and yanking the entire garment off in one harsh tug. “The door’s open,” he said with a grated whisper. “I don’t want – the UPS guy – you know.”
Jackson didn’t remember shutting the door, but the door did slam, and he was back to pinning Stiles to the wall like the hot, pliant prey he was. Shoes and socks were kicked off, and clothes ripped under the pressure of supernatural fingertips and nails, the hiccupped gasps sounding in Jackson’s ear equating to a chorus of yes, yes, yes. Stiles’ skin was all surprisingly smooth dips and plains, hard-edged bone beneath flesh that tasted of salt and sex and some enticing stamp of Stilinski.
Wedging a knee between Stiles’ thighs, Jackson gripped tightly at Stiles’ waist and pressed them flush, bare torso to torso, gentle contours against his own sharp ones. Stiles whimpered and fixed Jackson with an unwavering look; a full-out stare that anyone else in the school would be too shit-scared to pull off.
“This’s definitely not what I – god, okay, this is never happening again, right? Right.” The whirlwind of Stiles’ heartbeat was dizzying, and so were the words slipping from his swollen mouth. Fuck, Jackson hadn’t even kissed the guy and his lips were still this succulent, pink flesh.
“I really don’t care,” Jackson managed as he yanked at Stiles’ belt, snapping the leather with a crack. “As long you make this –” He ground his hips down on Stiles’, rubbing the painfully thick length of his cock along the welcoming curve of Stiles’ body. “As long as you make this stop,” Jackson said with a tapering hiss as Stiles thrust his hips forward in reply.
“Can’t argue with that logic,” Stiles said with quiet intent rough in his voice. “And knowing your repressive, overly-hetero, masculine tendencies, we’ll never speak of this again, which is especially fine by me.”
“You still talking?” Jackson popped the button on Stiles’ jeans, yanked them down and ended up on his knees in the process.
“I’ve always appreciated the mutual respect of this rela- hnngh.” If Jackson was lucky, that was the sound of Stiles swallowing his tongue as Jackson inexpertly mouthed the fevered bulge of Stiles’ erection through the thin material of his boxers. The immediate quiver and bob of Stiles’ dick under Jackson’s tongue should’ve freaked him out, but instead – instead.
Crimson coloured Jackson’s vision, left him weighted beneath a curtain of thick, tangy lust as he sunk his teeth into the delicate angle of hipbone before him. Stiles’ yelp of protest fell upon deaf years, but the fingertips that snaked into his hair and yanked to pull him away had Jackson snapping his gaze up with an unbidden snarl.
While Stiles’ face was flushed beet red, and the head of his erection was at the verge of popping out of the waistband of his boxers, his stare held fast as ever. “You bit me – you bit me! I’m gonna get douchebag rabies. I’m gonna –”
“I didn’t even break the skin, you pansy-ass.”
Jackson fisted a hand around Stiles’ wrist and tugged. With an ignored curse word or two, Stiles was rolled beneath Jackson, sandwiched between him and the unforgiving tile. With amber eyes blazing, Stiles scowled. “First – ow. Second, is this how you woo all of your one night – er, day – stands? A throwdown to the icy-floored foyer?”
“You don’t seem to have any problem with it,” Jackson said with an honest grin that took him by surprise. Fuck if the guy didn’t have balls at the weirdest times.
And as quickly as the moment passed, it fled on fast paws. Jackson was plunged into red and black and white once more. His vision tunnelled and his hands were urgent as he reached between them and freed his erection from the top of his threadbare sweatpants.
“Really wanna fuck you,” Jackson found himself saying against Stiles’ collarbone with huffed breaths and a hard-on that was on the verge of bursting at the mere sound of Stiles’ pulse skipping and speeding up. “Wanna split you in half, make you hurt so good, fuck you ‘til you’re flooded with my cock and cum.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said softly, his nails scraping down the muscled slopes of Jackson’s arms, one leg hooking around the back of Jackson’s knee. “Yeah – I mean no. No.” Stiles groaned as Jackson slunk a hand down and roughly circled the slick crown of Stiles’ cock. “Definitely none of those things. ‘Cuz, you know –” Stiles gave a breathless sigh as Jackson fisted the entire hard length. “STD’s.”
Jackson paused long enough to gape. “Dude, I don’t have STD’s.”
“Dude,” Stiles said, managing to sound wrecked and bossy at the same time, “Coming from you? Not the best reassurance.”
Jackson was definitely not sputtering. Not while he had a willing – unwilling, what the fuck? – guy laid out beneath him, practically naked and ready for the taking. Every cell in Jackson’s body howled to just mount him and fuck him into the sunset.
“For that,” Jackson said, biting off each word, “I’m not letting you get off.”
“W-wait, what?”
But Jackson was already flipping Stiles onto his stomach and shimmying off boxers which he now dimly noted were covered in Star Trek symbols. Christ. He’d fucked a lot of crazies in the past, but this – this took the cake.
Stiles’ hands were fisted against the pale tile, his profile scrunched up tight as he no doubt repressed a cry from the harsh cold of the floor pressing against his dick. Jackson smirked and took a brief second to admire the view – not the same curves as a girl, but damn, that lightly freckled ass was inviting and unconsciously raised up, just for him.
And for a moment, the thought passed that he more than admired the view. Then Jackson’s cock pulsed in his hand with impatience and he groaned, closing the space between them. Sidling his chest up against the arch of Stiles’ spine, Jackson slipped his dick between Stiles’ firm, biteable ass cheeks. It wasn’t everything he desired, but god, it was a warm, enthusiastic body. Albeit attached to a disobedient mind and the world’s toppiest bottom, but that hardly mattered now.
Not when Stiles was uttering all of these perfectly helpless, tortured noises as Jackson started up a fast, smooth pace of pistoning hips. Jackson’s palms gripped Stiles’ hips, dipped to his thighs, and dragged back with burning, bruising fingertips and an errant bite to the back of Stile’s neck.
A thick wave of shimmering pleasure lapped at Jackson’s spine, his nerves snapping and snarling at that final wrecking point. Jackson nipped at Stiles’ shoulder and got a buck back in reply; something that nearly had Jackson laughing mid fuck-slick drag against the cleft of Stiles’ ass. But Stiles thrust up and back, Jackson’s cock caught on the edge of Stiles’ tight, little hole – and that was fucking it.
Jackson’s body was like a clamp around Stiles’ as he fucked the curve of his ass with a fervour that devoured Jackson from twisting gut to clenching thighs to pulsing, leaking cock. Stiles was rutting against the floor, but the strangled noises he gasped out told Jackson that he was the only one nearing that sharp, poker-hot peak.
It was when Stiles let out a strangled gasp of Jackson that a feral noise clawed from Jackson’s throat. His every sense burst with Stiles; scent, sound, taste, touch, as he striped hot and thick across Stiles’ lower back and watched subtle muscle shift and shudder beneath skin. Jackson’s body quaked once, twice, before his vision blacked and he collapsed atop Stiles with a rush of breath.
That lasted about three seconds.
“Get the hell off me, you sack of unshowered werewolf,” Stiles said as he began to attempt a wiggling escape. Jackson grunted and flipped onto his back, wincing when the air began to immediately cool the drying cum into his happy trail. That would be hell to clean off.
Speaking of, Jackson idly entertained himself by watching Stiles attempt to clean his own back with his balled-up boxers. He was turning in circles with each attempt, like a dog trying to catch its tail. A laugh rumbled deep in Jackson’s chest before he help it.
Stiles shot an acid look Jackson’s way, but it was anything but intimidating. “You don’t let me get off, you jizz all over my back, and now you laugh at me. Good, great. My life is officially made. I have joined the ranks of those fucked over by Jackson Whittemore.”
“And don’t you just feel honoured.” Jackson felt clearheaded for the first time in over twenty-four hours, and it was like drinking down a cool, sweating glass of water. The fires were banked, for now. What was all this shit Derek had mentioned about waiting it out? The key was simply finding a person who’d take it hard and keep a lid on the whole deal later.
“Yeah,” Stiles said tightly. “Totally.” He was silent for a blessed moment as he tugged on his jeans, then he sighed and eyed Jackson’s prone form lounging on the floor. “So? I take it you're feeling like more of your old self. Self-important jerk and all that.”
“Aw, Stilinksi cares. Cute,” Jackson said carelessly as he rolled to his feet and pulled up the sweatpants that had previously tangled around his knees.
“He doesn’t,” Stiles said, his face hidden as he turned away to collect his shirt and sweater. “He just wants to know if he can go now. And if he can stop speaking in the third person. Look at the mayhem you’ve begun.”
Jackson shrugged. “You can go. I don’t care.”
“Gee, thanks.” Stiles had dressed quickly, if not clumsily, and now he stood with his back to the front door. His expression was oddly unreadable as he snagged Jackson with one last lingering look. No one ever really looked at Jackson like that. Like they saw right through him, and they didn’t particularly care if they saw some pretty nasty shit. “Well, as enlightening at this after-school programme was, let’s never repeat it. See ya, Jackson. Don’t hump any small dogs.”
With that, Jackson found himself alone in his empty home once more. Only this time he was surrounded by Valentine’s gifts he didn’t want and everything smelled of Stiles.
And fuck, he was horny all over again.
***
“Are you telling me,” Derek said slowly, his eyebrows furrowing, “that you had sex with someone while in heat?”
“Um.” Jackson laughed. “That is the point of the whole thing, isn’t it? Honestly, I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Derek’s expression went stony and his voice was just as hard. “A werewolf goes through heat to find a mate, you idiot. Whomever you chose –” Derek squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whomever you chose, you chose for life.”
“Oh.” Jackson blinked. “Oh. Well, shit.”
END