It’s like watching a car crash, in slow-motion, while behind the wheel of a car, and drunk.
Jackson sees himself turning into this – this thing, this monster, and snarling into the camera. It frightens the breath out of him just watching himself; his skin is scaled and blue, his eyes narrowed to slits, and his fangs sharp and long where they dig into his lips.
He wanted to become something strong, but this wasn’t what he had in mind.
Jackson’s almost late for school by the time he can calm his heart enough to function again. The drive there feels surreal, like he’s just a passenger – like that night. He imagines it had to have been the same because the footage is the only proof Jackson has that anything happened. He was sure he slept during the night without any interruptions. That was just ignorance, though.
It’s stupid for him to have watched it before going to school, Jackson decides. Nothing the teachers are saying is sinking in, he can’t tell if he’s coming or going, and no matter how many times his friends or teammates call his name he doesn’t hear them.
Lunchtime comes around and Jackson doesn’t feel up to eating. He forces himself to have an apple and some water, though, just to say he had something. The rest of the day passes by much like it did in the morning. It’s just like the sheet of paper in front of him: blank. Jackson isn’t even here anymore.
The bell rings and Jackson shuffles back to his car, trying to keep his mind from zoning out. It wouldn’t be the best idea for that to happen while he’s driving. But, somehow, he did manage to get to school on auto-pilot this morning, so maybe he could try that again.
Scott waves at Stiles as he walks towards his bike. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
Jackson’s Porsche is still parked in the lot, which is surprising since Jackson usually just rushes out of class, and drives off to be with ‘better people’. Scott peeks over at the car, sees that Jackson is still inside, and goes back to unlocking his bike. After Jackson still doesn’t move, doesn’t pull out of the lot, Scott senses something’s off.
Jackson did seem less bitchy than usual today. Come to think of it, Scott doesn’t even remember hearing him talk to…anyone.
“Jackson!” Scott calls, holding on to the seat of his bike. “Hey. You okay?”
Jackson doesn’t even glare, just keeps staring at his dashboard like it will devour his soul if he blinks.
Scott moves past his bike, closer to the car now, and says, “Jackson, you okay in there?”
Not a word still; Scott swallows around the tense feeling in his stomach. Why is he even worried? This is Jackson, Mr. I’m-so-beautiful-and-your-life-is-meaningless. He’s never been particularly nice to Scott, never tried to be friendly when Scott approached him, and always refused to help Scott improve at lacrosse.
So, why does Scott care? Why does it matter if Jackson looks like a zombie ate his brain for lunch, that he’s started shaking, and maybe falling face-first against his steering wheel--
When there’s still no reply, Scott gets a lot closer, his bike falling against the pavement noisily. The sound startles Jackson and he looks up, eyes wide and petrified, almost like he’s pleading for Scott to save him from something.
Scott takes a few steps, slowly, and presses a hand against Jackson’s window.
There’s something about his soft, fearful expression that’s drawing Scott in. And then a smell hits him. Scott has never been far enough from Allison or Stiles to notice maybe, but there’s a strange, familiar scent all around Jackson and his car. Scott’s taken by it, by him, and he knocks against the glass, hoping he can get a stronger dose of the aroma.
Jackson blinks a few times, his expression schooled into something Scott recognizes as annoyance. He doesn’t bother rolling down the window, he just points to the passenger’s side door.
Scott looks back at his bike, wincing. “Wait a second.” Jackson’s eye roll is so relieving that Scott can’t stop himself from smiling.
He rushes over to his bike, locks it back up, and then goes to Jackson’s car. As soon as he climbs in, Jackson presses down on the gas and takes off down the road.
Stiles was watching the whole time, just as curious about Jackson’s odd behaviour as Scott was, but he can’t believe his eyes. Scott promised they’d hang out after school – once he got changed and spent some time with his mom. Then, why is he in Jackson’s Porsche?
They’re getting further away, and Stiles is pretty peeved about this. Okay, maybe he’s royally pissed off. And when Stiles is pissed off, he makes rash decisions – like the one he’s making right now.
Stiles is following them, or trying to at least. A Jeep is not made to chase down a Porsche. They go down a stretch of road, somewhere leading to the highway, but they stop along the side, turning into a wooded area. They’d be out of sight if Stiles hadn’t caught up in time.
When they stop, Stiles does, too. He hopes he’s far enough that they don’t spot him watching. They don’t step out of the car, but they don’t drive off either, so Stiles figures he’s safe. He turns off the ignition and waits.
“Why are we here?” Scott asks, looking around the tall, sinister-looking trees. It’s pretty suspicious.
“I didn’t want to risk other people hearing our conversation,” Jackson explains, fingers curled around the steering wheel. He turns to Scott abruptly. “I didn’t become what you are. I became a freak. I became something…hideous.” He swallows, hands falling in his lap. “Tell me what’s happening.”
Scott’s brow creases. “I don’t know what you mean. Are you having urges? Changing when you get angry? Because that happened to me, too.”
Jackson sighs, mouth twitching up at one corner with irritation. “No, idiot, I’m not you. I just said I’m something else.”
Scott frowns, narrowing his eyes at Jackson. He’s trying to help, and Jackson isn’t being clear about what the problem is. But that smell and the way Jackson looked earlier…It’s making Scott confused. He can’t decide if he’d rather lick or punch Jackson more right now.
“Well tell me what’s wrong?” Scott says sharply, brows knit.
Jackson scoffs. “Forget it. I should have just gone to see a werewolf who actually knows things.”
The scent is…distracting. Scott can’t even feel the anger anymore. It’s simmering down to a warm feeling, gentle and comforting, like being bathed in sunlight on a windy day. Jackson’s smell is wild but tame, exotic, and just strong enough to make Scott’s lips part.
Jackson notices the way Scott’s watching him; he’s seen that look on other people’s faces. People like Lydia, Isaac and Stiles. He can use this, go along with it, maybe coax some answers out of Scott that he didn’t realize he had. This could work.
The engine is off, but Jackson doesn’t bother pulling the keys out. His hands slide against the steering wheel until they’re sliding down the sides, following the leather all the way down to Jackson’s jeans. Scott’s throat must be tight; his swallowing is audible to both of them.
Scott’s brow furrows when Jackson tilts his head to the side, fingers coming up to push his collar down, pale expanses of skin at Scott’s disposal. Jackson knows what wolves like, how they act, he just isn’t one of them.
There’s a hitch in Scott’s breathing, and he fights to pull his eyes away, but he can’t. He growls instead, as menacing as he can muster. It only seems to urge Jackson on.
Jackson’s unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt, collar falling lower, revealing the dips and curves of his shoulder. He bites his lip, eyes half-lidded, still opening the front of his shirt.
Scott shakes his head, forcing his eyes away. “If I can’t help you, bring me back to school.”
It’s for Jackson’s own good; he’s better off seeing an Alpha. Jackson doesn’t know what Scott is willing to do right now, all the ways he’d enjoy bending Jackson over, tasting every taut inch of skin. God, he didn’t even know Jackson could make him feel this way.
Maybe it’s that smell. It seems to be getting more pungent; it’s making his head hurt.
Jackson rips the keys out of the ignition, rolls down the window, and throws them straight out. Scott’s eyes look about ready to fall out of their sockets, but Jackson doesn’t care. His skin is flushed, burning up with anger.
No-one – and that includes naïve, dorky, wolves with no fashion sense – is allowed to refuse Jackson. If there’s anything in the world Jackson can’t forgive, that he hates more than needing Scott’s approval, it’s being rejected.
Scott’s about to rush outside to find the keys until Jackson grabs him by the shirt, and drags him in close. Then, things get a bit hazy for Scott. He’s not sure what’s happening, but it feels amazing.
They must be kissing, or at least they’re lips are pressed together, but it feels like so much more than that. Jackson is licking, sucking, curling his fingers at the back of Scott’s neck, and leaving claw marks all over the upraised skin. Scott is being claimed, owned, and he can’t figure out why he should be against it.
Jackson is almost shocked by how much he likes the taste of Scott, and how pliant he’s being about this. It was obvious he wanted a taste, but he thought Scott would have shoved him away by now and ran off.
Hands grab at Jackson, pushing and pulling, and he expects to be slammed against his window – which he is – but he can’t anticipate the violent, hungry way Scott is nipping at his lips, pressing their bodies flushed together at every point possible. Scott feels like a furnace, a hard, muscled, delicious furnace with teeth that scrape and burn in all the right places.
Jackson is hard, but Scott is even harder, so he counts it as a win.
The rutting turns frantic, Jackson’s air being forced out of him during each kiss, he knows he can’t keep this up for long, but he can’t break away long enough to tell Scott that. But Scott shifts, moving higher up, looming over Jackson.
Scott sits there, watching, detailing every way Jackson looks ruined, lips barely pressed to Jackson’s. His chest rumbles affectionately, eyes focused on the way Jackson’s breathing calms, evens out. He presses his palm to Jackson’s left shoulder, sliding his hand across the skin of Jackson’s collarbone until his sleeve falls off. Jackson leans in to bite at Scott’s mouth, but Scott forces him back, wanting to savour this in case he can’t have it again. They all know how temperamental Jackson is.
Jackson settles down, his heart rate slowing, and his lungs finally taking in the air they needed. The complacence, the almost scientific way Scott is watching him, makes his skin itch, makes everything feel out of place, and brings up all his insecurities and fears.
There’s a reason Jackson is the way he is today. He hadn’t really known his real parents, but he’d met a lot of foster ones. They told him he was ugly, that he looked like a girl, that he’d only ever attract men with those lips and those eyes. Kids weren’t much better. They’d chase him, call him names, steal his books and his clothes, and then he’d go home to unhappy foster parents with no money to support him. It’s only after he’d learned how to put up walls, and defend himself that his adoptive parents took him in. By then, though, the damage was done.
Jackson doesn’t know how to let people in anymore, and Scott is waiting for permission. It scares Jackson how much he’d like to say ‘yes’. But he’s not ready for this yet; there’s something wrong with him.
But before Jackson gets a chance to tell Scott to get off, Scott is pressing back in.
It’s not a kiss so much as physical contact, a reassuring touch. Scott murmurs praise after praise, tongue darting out to catch on Jackson’s teeth. Scott whispers that he’s thought about this before, that he’s always liked Jackson. And Jackson, surprisingly, lets Scott past a few of his barriers.
Scott’s palm tickles Jackson’s skin when it moves up to the side of his neck, keeping him against the cool glass of the window. Then, when Scott’s lips move in to claim Jackson’s mouth, his hips roll languidly in Jackson’s lap. It feels like - like dying and going to heaven. Jackson can remember the last time he was this hard, this into it, and it involved two very unlikely people.
He’s whimpering before he can hold it in, clinging on to Scott’s back, following the easy movements, needing them more than he thought possible. Jackson’s head thumps against the glass when Scott seats himself harder against Jackson’s cock, and that’s it.
He can’t wait; he has to have more now.
Stiles was waiting, but when he hears grunting, growling, and then someone hitting the glass on the driver’s side, he figures it’s time to intervene. Figures they’d find a way to have a fight in Jackson’s car. Maybe it’s because of the keys that flew out the window earlier…
Yeah, Stiles would be fuckin’ pissed if Scott did that to him, too.
Stiles swings his car door open, jumps out, and bounds across to where they are. He’s running over grass and leaves, and bits of broken glass from when teenagers partied. (That may have been him and Scott actually. Oops?) And then he’s standing right next to Jackson’s car window. In complete and utter shock.
There are a few ways Stiles expected this to go. One; Scott and Jackson refusing to stop, and Stiles getting a black eye, two; they break it up right away, and Scott and Stiles spend some quality time together finally, or three; Scott is too angry from the fight, and goes home, leaving Stiles with his own teenage hormones again.
What he couldn’t have guessed is Jackson – Scott’s arch nemesis on a good day – to have Scott’s cock all the way down his throat as he bobs up and down in Scott’s lap. So, really, it’s not Stiles fault for what happens next.
He slips on some glass, or maybe damp leaves from when it rained this morning, and stumbles, reaching out for Jackson’s door and finding no purchase on it. He manages to hit his head right against the car door on the way down, knocking himself unconscious in the process.
That’s definitely going to leave a mark.
Unlike how he appears, Jackson doesn’t get around a lot. At least, he hadn’t been until this year. The only guys he’d been with were Isaac and Stiles, and that was a fluke. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime deal that they never want to repeat. They certainly haven’t spoken about it again.
But Jackson can’t explain what’s come over him. There’s an eagerness to please Scott, and repay him for the attention – which makes Jackson end up with his throat filled with a hard, throbbing cock not for the first time. Maybe it’s the honest, genuine way Scott was talking to him before. Maybe it took Jackson this long to realize that Scott’s actually a nice guy, and that his body is fuckin’ amazing. Maybe it’s a combination of things. But, either way, Jackson is thoroughly enjoying the sounds of pleasure he pulls from Scott as salty, bitter pre-come coats Jackson tongue.
Scott thrusts up into the warm, spit-slick mouth, petting Jackson’s hair, and practically cooing with enjoyment. Jackson looks gorgeous like this; his eyes heavy, dark, fluttering prettily, his lips stretched around Scott’s length, and his manicured fingers gently stroking up and down Scott’s thigh, squeezing once in a while when Scott gets too excited. It feels like Jackson belongs here – not sucking cock, per se - but claiming, and being claimed by Scott’s hands, lips, teeth and come. He wants to own Jackson, just like he has Allison and Stiles.
Jackson can feel Scott’s about to climax; feels the tensing of Scott’s muscles, sees his balls moving in tightly to the base of his cock, so he prepares to swallow it all down. But the loud bang against Jackson’s door – a cop or an animal maybe? – startles Scott enough for his hips to shove deep down Jackson’s throat as he spills, thick and salty, choking Jackson with it.
If ever there was a time Jackson felt like a clogged sink, it would be in this moment.
He pulls off, panting, glaring up at Scott with no real heat behind it. “Thanks a lot, McCall. Nearly killed me with your load.”
“Stiles--” Scott sucks in a breath, pointing behind them. “Stiles just… he was just there. I think he hurt himself.”
“Stilinski? How? Never mind. How could he not hurt himself would be a better question.”
Jackson wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, which seems to irritate Scott for some reason, but Scott doesn’t say anything, and tucks himself in.
“I’m going to check on him. Are you coming?”
“I would be…” Jackson quips, dabbing sweat off his forehead.
The beginning of a smile is hanging off Jackson’s lips, and Scott struggles to hold his own back because of it. This is serious after all.
“You know what I mean. Come on! I’ll take care of you after, okay?”
Stiles is mumbling incoherent things about Jackson being a cockslut and Scott being an ungrateful whore when they find him flat on his back. It almost makes Scott want to leave him there, and definitely doesn’t convince Jackson to help, but they do get him up after a bit of grumbling and frowning.
Jackson isn’t nice about how he throws Stiles in the back seat, but Scott doesn’t reprimand him so it couldn’t have been that bad. Plus, Stiles kind of deserves it for making Jackson’s throat burn as if he swallowed jalapeno peppers.
Scott and Jackson get back in the front, both peering at Stiles like he’s the elephant in the room they don’t want to talk about. Maybe he is – except smaller, weaker, and sporting a lovely new bruise right in the middle of his forehead.
Jackson sighs, looking down at his pants. He’s still hard, and Scott won’t want to take care of it now that his best friend is knocked out like this.
Scott reaches out for Jackson when he doesn’t say anything. Jackson nods his head towards Stiles. “Was he stalking you?”
Scott blinks a few times, humming softly. He’s stroking Jackson’s thigh for some reason. “Not sure.”
Jackson pretends not to feel it (or want it). He can’t have Scott knowing how intensely connected he feels to him right now. “That’s reassuring.”
Scott stops stroking, cringing a bit. “I may have had plans with him and forgot. And then he probably came to yell at me for ditching, saw us, and tripped?”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “But you guys are just friends so what does he care?”
Scott swallows, not bothering to answer. Jackson will hear the lie if he says anything.
Jackson can see the guilty look instead. “No way. You guys aren’t just friends?”
Scott scratches the back of his neck. “Not exactly…It- It’s complicated.”
“I bet,” Jackson says flatly.
“No, like, really,” Scott says, dragging his hands through his hair. “Let me explain.”
“Please do, because I don’t know what the hell is going on lately.” Jackson crosses his arms, scowl firmly in place.
That little shit called Jackson a cockslut when he’s already banged his best friend, Isaac, and Jackson. And who knows who else Stiles is hiding in his sex-closet.
Scott looks over at Stiles, trying to find the best way to explain it. He’s not as good with words as Stiles; can’t be funny or witty like him. Jackson’s frown is deepening, anyway, so maybe he could use serious right now.
“Um. Well. You see, Derek was kind of – you know – claiming Stiles. And Derek made this sound, this howl. And I thought maybe Derek was in trouble. But then when I got there, Stiles was, like, naked and hard, and had a few of Derek’s fingers inside him.”
Scott ends up murmuring most of it, just in case Stiles wakes up and gets angry at him for discussing their sex life. Scott slaps his thighs at the end of it, as though punctuating the thought. Jackson seems to get it.
The frown on Jackson’s face weakens a bit, ebbs away slowly, but not entirely. He sighs, sitting sideways in his seat. “So, Stiles slept with you, Derek, Isaac, and me?”
“Isaac and you?” Scott’s eyebrows shoot up like a rocket. “H-he – in the locker room? That was you two?! He wouldn’t tell me who the two people were!” Scott’s eyes narrow when he looks over at Stiles. Some best friend he is. They’re going to have a talk about honesty and trust…and other stuff.
Jackson rolls his eyes, lips pursed with mild irritation. “Can you just concentrate for a second?”
Scott’s gaze slowly drifts back to Jackson; the smell of him – still very much aroused – makes it hard for Scott to control his body properly. He closes his eyes, breathing in the air around them. Is it going to be like this every time they see each other now? If so, Scott is going to have to find super special, werewolf nose plugs.
Jackson’s fingers find Scott’s, and he brings them up to his lips, mouthing the words against Scott’s skin. “Can you smell him on me? Know that his cock was in between these lips?” Scott doesn’t open his eyes, but he shivers; Jackson likes that. “Or was it because you could smell me, rutting and rubbing against him, that you got turned on?”
Scott pounces – more like a feline than a wolf – pining Jackson down and stripping away every layer he can. There’s no way that Scott is not going to return the favour now. He has to. He must in the name of friendship, wolf bonding, and amazing blowjobs.
While Scott clumsily takes Jackson in his mouth, Jackson’s hands wander over to Stiles, getting him out of his pants just enough to wrap the still soft length in a tight fist.
It’s Stiles’s fault for interrupting their little session.
Stiles wakes up to the sound of soft whimpering, lips touching and leather creaking each time Jackson or Scott leans in to deepen the kiss. That part is fine, mostly. All right, it’s super, totally okay with Stiles, because they are amazingly thorough when it comes to making out, and so intimate with the way they press their mouths together, hands sliding everywhere, that Stiles feels like a voyeur.
And did Stiles mention they were naked?
So, as Stiles began, that part is fine. What isn’t cool is the part where Stiles is also naked and covered in semen. Most of it’s probably not his own because how in the world could one teenage boy produce enough to cover his entire torso?
“Um,” Stiles starts groggily, trying to lean up on his elbows. “What is all this about? I would say I feel the love, but I didn’t actually witness or experience it, so I’m not sure this counts as strange, wolf affection.” When Stiles tries to touch the mess on his stomach, Scott growls in warning.
“I’m higher up in rank than you; I get to clean it.” Scott sucks Jackson’s bottom lip into his mouth, finding it hard to pull away. “Any objections?” he murmurs to Jackson.
Jackson shakes his head, looking blissed out and very, very content. Stiles is kind of annoyed that he missed all that bonding. From the looks of it, it would have been a good addition to his spank bank.
Scott is leaning over the tight space between the seats, pulling Stiles into a sitting position before Stiles is fully awake. Jackson strokes Scott’s back absentmindedly, humming his approval when Scott’s tongue swirls in the white mess on Stiles’s skin. Stiles bites into his lips, body already responding to the wet stripes pressing warmth into his chest and stomach.
God is it ever good to be friends with werewolves.
Stiles writhes after each slide of tongue while Jackson continuously touches and pets Scott like they’ve become somehow…involved. Jackson looks over at Stiles with a coy smile on his full mouth. Stiles’s eyes narrow, but he blames it on the way Scott can make licking inside his belly button feel like oral sex
Jackson’s other hand finds its way to the back of Stiles’s nape, stroking slow circles. “Don’t be jealous, Stiles.”
“Why would I be jealous of the co-captains of the lacrosse team becoming an item and covering me in spunk? And that after I knocked myself unconscious with a car worth more than I could make in my entire life.”
Scott laughs breathily against Stiles’s stomach, nipping at the pale skin of Stiles’s ribs. “Don’t be like that, dude.” He swirls his tongue over Stiles’s hips, catching every last taste on his tongue, and Stiles moans.
Jackson scrapes down Scott’s back, dragging a hand slowly down the side of Stiles’s arm. “Looks like your plan worked, Scott.”
“I told you he’d be ready for another round.” Scott beams, pecking Stiles’s on his spread thighs, careful to avoid the erection swollen with blood. “You wanna fuck me?”
Stiles’s mind goes blank for a long moment. That’s something that never happens to him, no matter how much medication he takes to slow his mind down to three trains of thought at a time. But right now, picturing Scott bouncing on his lap like Isaac did to Jackson not long ago, Stiles is considering throwing all his meds away because werewolf sex is way more effective.
Logic, though, is an erotic fantasy murderer. “There’s no place in here. Porsches are expensive and snazzy, and all that good stuff, but the inside is pretty cramped. No offense, Jackson.”
“None taken. And, as much as I’m enjoying this myself, I’m not about to clean up the mess if you guys try.” Jackson adds, startlingly calm, and even a bit fond.
Stiles wonders if it isn’t different this time around. Scott’s already used to Stiles – and all of the sex stuff they’ve been doing – but Jackson seems to be falling into place easily, too. He was much more aggressive, insulting, and defensive the first time around. Maybe now he realizes this isn’t just a fling; Stiles and Scott like to keep people around for a long time.
Or maybe Stiles’s brain has turned to mush because Jackson’s plush mouth is on his cock again, and he’s going to blow his load in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
Jackson is panting over Stiles when Stiles breaks free of his orgasm-induced coma. Scott is behind Jackson, tongue poking out between his lips in effort, and Stiles thinks he should know what’s going on, but everything is a bit foggy. Jackson moans, mouthing at Stiles thigh where he’s bent between the seats, his body rocking forward each time the muscles in Scott’s arm flex.
“Oh my god,” Stiles croaks, catching on much later than he would have liked. “So this is what it looks like from the outside. Wow. No, seriously, wow. This is…” He curses his cock for being so limp and defeated, lying flat against his thigh. It won’t even twitch, the motherfucker. How long is recovery time for sixteen year olds again?
Jackson huffs out a laugh, but it morphs into a breathless moan when Scott pushes in further, biting down on Jackson’s shoulder blade. Scott is grinning when he sinks his teeth deeper into Jackson’s skin, and Jackson turns, dragging his bruised mouth against Scott’s cheek. He’s being shoved forward with the force of Scott’s fingers alone, grappling for Stiles’s legs to keep him from face-planting in his own car.
Stiles fingers trace Jackson’s nipples, tweaking one playfully, and Jackson spills – just like that. Most of it is falling onto Stiles’s lap, but the rest trails down the back seat, and Jackson curses Scott for making him do exactly what he wanted to avoid.
“You’re paying for that,” Jackson scolds with a hint of laughter behind the words.
Scott nods agreeably, sitting sideways in the passenger side. “Sure, man. But what about--” His eyes turn wide and pleading, puffing his cheeks out for effect as he wiggles his hips in display.
“It’s never-ending!” Stiles complains, startled by how quickly Scott is hard again. “How many times can a werewolf come, seriously? This can’t be healthy.”
Scott clears his throat, looking sheepish. “A lot? But I can – I can take care of myself if you two…” He smiles hopefully, hand wrapped around his cock to demonstrate.
Jackson sighs, shaking his head with a small smile. “Yeah, fine.”
Jackson is seated in Stiles’s lap with his tongue down Stiles’s throat, fucking him thoroughly and messily with nothing more than a kiss. It’s dirty, sticky, and noisy enough for Scott – and anyone within a five mile radius – to enjoy.
It’s a good thing Stiles is human; he can’t give them more work by getting turned on again. Even though he desperately wants to.
Scott’s strokes turn frantic, frenzied and rough. Jackson looks over at Scott, sucking Stiles’s stongue into his mouth, and moaning extra vocally for Scott’s benefit. That’s enough, as it seems, since Scott is spurting out white and hot, some of it even landing on Jackson’s thigh.
Scott is panting, but his first thought is to clean up the mess all the same. Stiles wants to do it this time, though. He wants to repay Scott for all the free washes, the cuddles, but Jackson won’t stop kissing Stiles.
It’s definitely in Stiles’s best interest to give Jackson exactly what he wants – if he doesn’t want to end up driving home naked and covered in spunk. (He still has no idea where Jackson put his clothes. He should probably have asked somewhere between Scott licking him and Jackson eating his mouth.)
Stiles does manage to sneak away enough to dab some of Scott’s come on his fingers, sucking them afterward. But even then, Jackson won’t stop. The passionate necking continues, so they end up swapping spit and Scott’s sticky mess between their kiss-swollen mouths.
Jackson swears he hears Scott growl out “mine”, but he can’t be sure which of them Scott’s referring to.
Jackson gives them the footage later – when they’re not come-swapping and rubbing against each other like animals in heat – so Stiles can figure out what he is, and if he’s dangerous. It’s a bit disconcerting when Stiles gulps, but Scott elbows him in the side and smiles softly, placing a kiss on Jackson’s temple.
“Don’t worry, Jacks, we’re going to figure this out.”
Stiles coughs, adding weakly, “And by we, he means me.”
And Jackson feels like things will maybe, just maybe, get better after this.