Like Hunting Deer in Winter
Title: Like Hunting Deer in Winter
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Jackson Whittemore/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,170
A.N: For Figletofvenice, who asked for Jackson/Stiles and winter hunt, which I cleverly turned into the title, since the only thing the boys are hunting here is, uh, a happy ending. Oops.
Summary: Stiles never thinks of Jackson, with his rough hands and his cheekbones and those puffy lips that would probably be perfect for sucking cock. Oh Christ. His lips, which aren’t sneering or smirking or mocking at all, but are instead being used to press hot, open mouthed kisses along Stiles’s collarbone.
The last thing Stiles wants to do is get up close and personal with Jackson Whittemore. And for good reason. Because for the last sixteen years, getting up close and personal with Jackson Whittemore has meant experiencing either intense pain or utterly crushing humiliation. Or both at the same time.
Which is why this is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. Because it doesn't get much more up close and personal than this. Not in Stiles experience that is. Jackson has him crowded up against the locker room door with his hands under Stiles's jersey, sucking hard on Stiles's neck. And Stiles can't help but moan, can't help but buck up against him.
"Dude," he stutters, nearly as into it as he is confused. "Dude." He bites at his lower lip as he pushes at Jackson's shoulders. "What are you even doing? You're with Lydia. She's, like, the hottest thing to ever hot. And I'm," he half laughs. "I'm so not. So, just, stop. Alright?"
"Fuck Lydia," Jackson snaps, slapping Stiles hands away and angling even closer. He swivels his hips and holy fuck. Stiles moans, pressing back into the contact because, god damn, that feels good. Too good to be true. Because it isn't. It's some elaborate prank, any second now one of the douchier members of the team is going to jump out from behind the bank of lockers or something and go all Carrie on his ass. Although how Jackson would avoid ending up having a pig blood bath too isn't exactly clear, but then nothing is particularly clear to Stiles right now. Except that this? This shouldn't be happening.
"Okay, ha ha. Joke's on me. Or whatever. You've had your fun. But enough's enough already. Back off." He squirms in a way that does not at all free him but does make him go all tingly from the extra contact. A moan slips out without Stiles even realizing it's going to happen and fuck. Hard to play it cool when he's moaning for it. Stiles twists in Jackson grip. "Get off!"
Jackson lets out a growl, his eyes flashing yellow and oh god. That shouldn't be hot. It shouldn't be hot at all. Stiles whimpers and then claps a hand over his mouth because what the honest to god fuck is wrong with him.
This is Jackson Whittemore. The same Jackson Whittemore who shoved his face into the sand his first day of kindergarten, gave him his first wedgie in middle school, and slammed him up against this very same door in a much less sexy and much more hurty way less than a month ago.
Oh god. Less than a month ago. And now here he is acting out the starring role in one of Stiles favorite fantasies. Except in those fantasies it’s Lydia who shows up after practice and slams him up against the wall. Lydia, with her perfect, perky breasts and lipid green eyes and that mouth. God, that mouth. All glossy and wet and slick from whatever it is she puts on it.
Lydia. That’s who he wants. Not Jackson.
Stiles never thinks of Jackson, with his rough hands and his cheekbones and those puffy lips that would probably be perfect for sucking cock. Oh Christ. His lips, which aren’t sneering or smirking or mocking at all, but are instead being used to press hot, open mouthed kisses along Stiles’s collarbone.
And, dude.
It’s like he’s been dropped into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Or Bizarro World or something. Which means that something bad is going to happen to him. Something horrible, terrible, no good, very bad indeed. And Stiles is just not ready to deal with that, whatever it might be.
He panics a bit, flails around some and manages gets his hands back up between them. Stiles shoves at Jackson, which does a fat lot of nothing, thank you very much, and then groans in frustration and absolutely nothing else. "Dude, fuck off already,” he pants. “This isn't funny."
"Does this seem like a joke to you?" Jackson snarls. “Me rubbing off on you? Because I fail to see the humor in this situation.”
"You fail to see the humor in this situation? You?” Stiles tosses his head back against the hard wood of the door. “Dude. Seriously right now? I’m the one failing to see any fucking humor in this situation because I’m the one that’s being, god, rubbed off on. Alright? So no. You don’t get to be all snippy and snarky and sexy as fucking hell. Look at you. Christ. This is just,” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m babbling. Jackson fucking Whittemore is grinding up on me like a wolf in heat and I’m babbling. Way to go Stiles, way to go.”
Jackson laughs that smug ass laugh of his before nipping at Stiles’s neck and that just isn’t fair. “You like it,” he says, his voice all gravely and rough and dude.
This just doesn’t make any sense. It’s blowing Stiles’s mind, how little sense it makes.
Guys like Jackson are supposed to punch guys like Stiles in the nads for accidentally looking at them while they are changing. That’s the natural order of things. That’s the way it’s been for the last, oh, forever. They don’t suddenly show up after everyone’s left for the day with a towel slung over their perfectly defined shoulders and water dripping onto their perfectly defined chests before running down their perfectly defined abs to dampen the top of their low riding shorts. They don’t look at guys like Stiles like they are a long, cool glass of water. They don’t crowd up in guys like Stiles’s space, all but licking their chops. And they certainly don’t pin guys like Stiles to the god damn locker room door. Shit like that’s not how real life works, no matter what pornos might want you to believe.
“How is this even my life?” he asks the universe, thunking his head against the wood again.
“Shut. Up.” Jackson punctuates each word with a bite. He licks up Stiles’s throat and then bites at the underside of Stiles’s jaw. And, you know what, who cares why this is happening? Who cares if it’s some big, giant, cosmic joke? Because right now it feels amazing. Super fantastic. And Stiles is just going to stop thinking now and enjoy the hell out of it.
“Alright,” he says, his hands dropping to Jackson’s hips, pulling him in tight. “Alright.”
Jackson lets out another laugh, wild and free and with just an edge of a howl in it. Stiles shivers at the sound, body arching up. The other boy crowds in close, his breath hot on Stiles neck. Then he’s biting down hard and Stiles eyes are fluttering shut and god. The sounds that are coming out of his mouth aren’t even human, but they are the hottest thing that Stiles has ever heard.
And, yeah, getting up close and personal might have been the last thing that Stiles ever wanted to do. Yeah, it will probably end in pain. Or humiliation. Or, you know, both. Of the intense, utterly crushing variety. But Stiles can’t find it in him to care. Not when Jackson’s hands are so hot on his skin, his mouth ghosting over Stiles's adam’s apple, as Jackson rutts between his legs, causing explosions behind Stiles eyes, like lights in the night sky.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Jackson Whittemore/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,170
A.N: For Figletofvenice, who asked for Jackson/Stiles and winter hunt, which I cleverly turned into the title, since the only thing the boys are hunting here is, uh, a happy ending. Oops.
Summary: Stiles never thinks of Jackson, with his rough hands and his cheekbones and those puffy lips that would probably be perfect for sucking cock. Oh Christ. His lips, which aren’t sneering or smirking or mocking at all, but are instead being used to press hot, open mouthed kisses along Stiles’s collarbone.
The last thing Stiles wants to do is get up close and personal with Jackson Whittemore. And for good reason. Because for the last sixteen years, getting up close and personal with Jackson Whittemore has meant experiencing either intense pain or utterly crushing humiliation. Or both at the same time.
Which is why this is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. Because it doesn't get much more up close and personal than this. Not in Stiles experience that is. Jackson has him crowded up against the locker room door with his hands under Stiles's jersey, sucking hard on Stiles's neck. And Stiles can't help but moan, can't help but buck up against him.
"Dude," he stutters, nearly as into it as he is confused. "Dude." He bites at his lower lip as he pushes at Jackson's shoulders. "What are you even doing? You're with Lydia. She's, like, the hottest thing to ever hot. And I'm," he half laughs. "I'm so not. So, just, stop. Alright?"
"Fuck Lydia," Jackson snaps, slapping Stiles hands away and angling even closer. He swivels his hips and holy fuck. Stiles moans, pressing back into the contact because, god damn, that feels good. Too good to be true. Because it isn't. It's some elaborate prank, any second now one of the douchier members of the team is going to jump out from behind the bank of lockers or something and go all Carrie on his ass. Although how Jackson would avoid ending up having a pig blood bath too isn't exactly clear, but then nothing is particularly clear to Stiles right now. Except that this? This shouldn't be happening.
"Okay, ha ha. Joke's on me. Or whatever. You've had your fun. But enough's enough already. Back off." He squirms in a way that does not at all free him but does make him go all tingly from the extra contact. A moan slips out without Stiles even realizing it's going to happen and fuck. Hard to play it cool when he's moaning for it. Stiles twists in Jackson grip. "Get off!"
Jackson lets out a growl, his eyes flashing yellow and oh god. That shouldn't be hot. It shouldn't be hot at all. Stiles whimpers and then claps a hand over his mouth because what the honest to god fuck is wrong with him.
This is Jackson Whittemore. The same Jackson Whittemore who shoved his face into the sand his first day of kindergarten, gave him his first wedgie in middle school, and slammed him up against this very same door in a much less sexy and much more hurty way less than a month ago.
Oh god. Less than a month ago. And now here he is acting out the starring role in one of Stiles favorite fantasies. Except in those fantasies it’s Lydia who shows up after practice and slams him up against the wall. Lydia, with her perfect, perky breasts and lipid green eyes and that mouth. God, that mouth. All glossy and wet and slick from whatever it is she puts on it.
Lydia. That’s who he wants. Not Jackson.
Stiles never thinks of Jackson, with his rough hands and his cheekbones and those puffy lips that would probably be perfect for sucking cock. Oh Christ. His lips, which aren’t sneering or smirking or mocking at all, but are instead being used to press hot, open mouthed kisses along Stiles’s collarbone.
And, dude.
It’s like he’s been dropped into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Or Bizarro World or something. Which means that something bad is going to happen to him. Something horrible, terrible, no good, very bad indeed. And Stiles is just not ready to deal with that, whatever it might be.
He panics a bit, flails around some and manages gets his hands back up between them. Stiles shoves at Jackson, which does a fat lot of nothing, thank you very much, and then groans in frustration and absolutely nothing else. "Dude, fuck off already,” he pants. “This isn't funny."
"Does this seem like a joke to you?" Jackson snarls. “Me rubbing off on you? Because I fail to see the humor in this situation.”
"You fail to see the humor in this situation? You?” Stiles tosses his head back against the hard wood of the door. “Dude. Seriously right now? I’m the one failing to see any fucking humor in this situation because I’m the one that’s being, god, rubbed off on. Alright? So no. You don’t get to be all snippy and snarky and sexy as fucking hell. Look at you. Christ. This is just,” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m babbling. Jackson fucking Whittemore is grinding up on me like a wolf in heat and I’m babbling. Way to go Stiles, way to go.”
Jackson laughs that smug ass laugh of his before nipping at Stiles’s neck and that just isn’t fair. “You like it,” he says, his voice all gravely and rough and dude.
This just doesn’t make any sense. It’s blowing Stiles’s mind, how little sense it makes.
Guys like Jackson are supposed to punch guys like Stiles in the nads for accidentally looking at them while they are changing. That’s the natural order of things. That’s the way it’s been for the last, oh, forever. They don’t suddenly show up after everyone’s left for the day with a towel slung over their perfectly defined shoulders and water dripping onto their perfectly defined chests before running down their perfectly defined abs to dampen the top of their low riding shorts. They don’t look at guys like Stiles like they are a long, cool glass of water. They don’t crowd up in guys like Stiles’s space, all but licking their chops. And they certainly don’t pin guys like Stiles to the god damn locker room door. Shit like that’s not how real life works, no matter what pornos might want you to believe.
“How is this even my life?” he asks the universe, thunking his head against the wood again.
“Shut. Up.” Jackson punctuates each word with a bite. He licks up Stiles’s throat and then bites at the underside of Stiles’s jaw. And, you know what, who cares why this is happening? Who cares if it’s some big, giant, cosmic joke? Because right now it feels amazing. Super fantastic. And Stiles is just going to stop thinking now and enjoy the hell out of it.
“Alright,” he says, his hands dropping to Jackson’s hips, pulling him in tight. “Alright.”
Jackson lets out another laugh, wild and free and with just an edge of a howl in it. Stiles shivers at the sound, body arching up. The other boy crowds in close, his breath hot on Stiles neck. Then he’s biting down hard and Stiles eyes are fluttering shut and god. The sounds that are coming out of his mouth aren’t even human, but they are the hottest thing that Stiles has ever heard.
And, yeah, getting up close and personal might have been the last thing that Stiles ever wanted to do. Yeah, it will probably end in pain. Or humiliation. Or, you know, both. Of the intense, utterly crushing variety. But Stiles can’t find it in him to care. Not when Jackson’s hands are so hot on his skin, his mouth ghosting over Stiles's adam’s apple, as Jackson rutts between his legs, causing explosions behind Stiles eyes, like lights in the night sky.